


The Bright and Hollow Sky

by Argyle



Series: House of Dracula (Fearful Symmetry AU) [2]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Character Turned Into Vampire, Domestic, Edwardian Period, F/M, Fake Science, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Psychological Trauma, Telepathic Bond, Temporary Character Death, Transformation, Unreliable Narrator, Vampire Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Despite all evidence to the contrary, Dracula only wants what everyone does. Freedom. Comfort. Sustenance. Companionship. It's simply an added bonus that the path to acquiring - and keeping - them must be paved in blood. (Continued AU branching off from Episode 1.)
Relationships: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing, Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: House of Dracula (Fearful Symmetry AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682920
Comments: 56
Kudos: 188





	1. Prologue

Transylvania, 1827

It's well past midnight when Dracula's minions present their quarry: two travelers on horseback, lost and road-weary to the point of desperation—for who indeed could have anticipated the unseasonable, impossibly thick fog which spread out over the mountain pass, rendering the road unnavigable?

The crows first began to track the their location some hours before, but it's the wolves that actually chase them down. There's a dozen of them, each larger than the last, with huge jaws and fur as black as night. Their eager, half-crazed chorus leads the men directly to the castle gates before they retreat into the darkness.

Dracula will reward their devotion _handsomely_.

But for now, his attention is occupied: he's made sure to keep the air around the immediate grounds clear, and the bright moonlight, along with his preternatural vision, make it easy to pick out the scene below. He smiles to observe that the men's horses are beyond agitated, skittishly skipping and bucking up, eager to bolt. Then one rider dismounts and manages to wrench the iron gates apart.

It's only another minute or two before the men have hitched the horses and are pounding at the castle door, calling out in stilted Romanian – "«Hello! We require shelter! Please!»" – but Dracula's descent of the grand staircase is painstakingly slow. Deliberate.

All the better to feed his guests' terror—

For yes, they will well and truly be Dracula's guests... and it's been so _long_ since he had the pleasure of entertaining at his home. He already set the long table with wine and salted meat, and the fire is roaring, casting the hall in warm, flickering light.

He pulls the bolt and works the latch, and then in an instant is seated back at the table, giving the impression that the door has opened on its own. The men share a baffled look but continue to step over the threshold and make their way into the hall, their cloaks swirling about them.

Fine wool, Dracula observes with a small frisson of pleasure. Very fine wool. And leather. And – elegantly knotted at their throats – spun silk. Perhaps the road has not been irrevocably hard on these young fellows after all. He smiles, raising a hand to beckon them forward.

"«Good evening. I am Count Dracula. This is my home,»" he drawls. "«Please. You must be parched. Be seated and refresh yourselves.»"

Do the men hesitate? Perhaps. Dracula is keenly aware that his wrinkled, shrunken visage would raise alarm in even the most stalwart of personalities. It is, after all, partly the result of infrequent access to well-sourced human blood... and partly a deliberate affectation. He's dressed in his usual velvet robe, the alternating crimson and black folds accentuating the pale, parchment-like texture of his skin. His long, stringy hair is pulled back with a ribbon. His yellow nails are grown into talons. And behind his thin lips, his teeth are very sharp.

But still, after scarcely more than a moment's pause, the men make their way to the table. "«Thank you, Count,»" says one. He's older than the other by perhaps a year or two—and is more surefooted, rugged.

Ruddy.

Dracula licks his lips. "«Sit down,»" he orders, and lifts the vessel to pour out two glasses of wine, ruby red and full to brimming. "«Please.»"

The men ease out of their cloaks, hats, and gloves, and then comply, settling into a couple of chairs across from their host. "«Thank you. We—» a pause, considering, "«— _cherish_ your... hospitality, sir.»"

"«It is an honor.»" Dracula smiles toothily. "«You are far from home, yes? I think Romanian is not your preferred tongue.»"

The man shivers. "«No. Indeed not.»"

For half an hour or more, they carry on like this. The food and drink restore both men wonderfully, and they manage to articulate that they are indeed foreign travelers—but not from Austria or the Low Countries, as Dracula first supposed, but rather far away _England_. This delights him. He listens attentively when his guests – William, he learns, a peer of the realm, and Marcus, a poet – confer between themselves in English: although most of the words mean nothing to him, he's utterly taken by their elegant, lilting accents.

Otherwise, both men are rather more fluent in German than Romanian. Dracula draws out from them that they'd completed university together and had afterward been traveling abroad for the better part of a year. France, Switzerland, Italy... and eventually farther east, to Transylvania. They'd been making their way to Bucharest when they were separated from their party, and had spent the past week working their way through the exquisite – if treacherous – Carpathian foothills.

"«It is fortunate, I think, that you came upon this place before exhaustion... or worse... overcame you.»"

Dracula escorts them to their rooms and bids them goodnight with pleasant assurances that he will see to their horses—

And indeed, he's true to his word. Unburdened by saddlery and luggage, they flee from the castle grounds and out of the gates with amazing speed—and they're deep into the woods by the time the wolves begin to howl.

*

"You are a poet, Marcus, are you not? I would like you to tell me about England."

"Where's William?" the lad demands. Why, he's gone veritably red in the face, tugging at his restraints – foolishly wasting precious energy – as if he could ever hope to escape. "What have you done with him?"

Dracula sighs. It's just so difficult to get through to some people. He hasn't even _fed_ on this one yet.

William, on the other hand... Oh, but Dracula hadn't been able to resist taking him that very first night. He'd returned to William's room – climbed the outer parapet wall and let himself in through the window – and fallen on him. William had been as pliable as clay in Dracula's hands, scarcely even putting up a fight as Dracula sank his fangs into that muscular throat...

The effects of his delectably aristocratic blood were as immediate as they were numerous. Dracula's hair regained its true blue-black crows' feather shade, his flesh grew flushed and taut, his frame righted and stretched tall. Strong. Yes, every aspect of his person was refortified in youth.

And English! _English_. What a sublime pleasure it was to at last acquire the language of Shakespeare. Of Milton and Marlowe. Of Wordsworth and Coleridge, Shelley and Keats and a dozen other new names gleaned from the neat volumes he'd recovered from the travelers' belongings, each the harbinger of some fresh enchantment.

To think that his guest won't give him the singular courtesy of attention—won't partake in a simple conversation so that Dracula might better stretch his proverbial wings with this newly acquired language... Well. It's downright irksome.

Dracula takes a sip of blood from his glass. He brought one of his favorite chairs down to the cell where he's keeping Marcus, and he now shifts his posture, getting comfortable. "Your friend is gone, my dear boy," he says, chidingly. "As are your horses, I'm afraid. Which means that you and I need only worry about ourselves."

"No..." Marcus shudders. He's hunched in the corner, folded over on himself like a puppet with its strings cut. "He wouldn't _do_ that. He'd never abandon me."

"That's right," says Dracula. For within William's blood, he had recognized the love the fellow felt for his companion. Indeed, his last thoughts – the ones not occupied by Dracula – were of him, and so it was the least Dracula could do to include the locket containing Marcus' portrait among the personal effects he sealed with him in his crate.

At last, realization begins to shadow Marcus' features. "You killed him."

"Yes."

"And you'll kill me too." With great effort, the lad at last manages to meet Dracula's eye. He's swollen and pale, raw and ragged and disheveled to the extreme, but there's a spark to him. There's true anger in his glare. "There are legends. Tales of creatures who feed on youth and beauty... on _life_ itself, in order to extend their own unnatural existences. Are you such a demon?"

"That depends," says Dracula, "on who you ask. Interpretations can be so very subjective. Which brings us back to this: I would like you to tell me about England. I want to know about the people. The culture. The land. Tell me _everything_."

A long pause, and then: "What—where should I begin?"

Dracula grins. Oh, but this _will_ be interesting. "Why not begin as the day does? Tell me, poet, of the sunrise."


	2. Chapter 2

England, 1907

Dracula has his fangs lodged in Johnny's throat when he first takes notice of the name.

 _Agatha_.

It bubbles to the surface of Johnny's mind before submerging again, tumbling down and under like flotsam in a storm—for Johnny is rocking himself on Dracula's lap, riding Dracula's cock so sweetly, so close to completion—

So full of pain and pleasure and Dracula's powerful will that a single anomalous thought might normally be taken with a grain of salt. And yet just the same, the name – _Agatha Van Helsing_ – is distinctive enough to give Dracula pause. He tucks it away in the annals of his mindscape and draws Johnny into a fierce kiss, clashing their teeth and tongues together until Johnny's gasping, bucking against him, spilling between their bellies.

A thrust or two more is all it takes for Dracula to follow him over the edge. He momentarily tightens his grip on Johnny's hips, driving his fingertips into Johnny's flesh in such a way as to leave a lovely set of welts. Then he lets Johnny slide off him into the rich mound of eiderdown at their sides.

And this is one of Dracula's favorite sights: his bride is the very picture of submission, utterly sated, quiet and still, his ginger hair deliciously tousled and his inquisitive features gone slack. In moments like these, Johnny allows himself to truly relax his guard. Cool his animosity. And simply _be_.

It's all Dracula can do to not take him into his arms and have him again. Dawn is still an hour or more away—they've all the time in the world.

But then Johnny's eyes shoot open. He meets Dracula's gaze and shivers, suddenly coming back to himself. "I—I left an experiment running in my laboratory," he says. And it's true: Dracula had dragged Johnny away from his workbench and into the bedroom by the veritable scruff of his neck. "I should probably—"

"Yes," Dracula drawls. "Can't have you setting fire to the place again."

Something shifts in Johnny's expression. "No," he agrees, absently.

*

Johnny has no head for subterfuge. Hell, it's a wonder he hasn't at some point managed to publicly expose himself while feeding. The way he loses himself to it, every stitch of him tied up in the act of _killing_ , has left him vulnerable to discovery and in need of Dracula's intervention more times than he cares to count.

It isn't that he doesn't appreciate the appeal of giving in to one's impulses. But he isn't a fool: he's long understood the need to lure his victims from the view of prying eyes. The very nature of the vampire demands that even the most minor of defilements be completed under the cover of darkness. He willingly courts destruction as well as discretion, and if he so chooses to reveal his true nature, it is a deliberate act of defiance.

A man doesn't simply survive – nay, _thrive_ – for nearly half a millennium without nurturing a healthy instinct for self-preservation.

And likewise without developing a nose for disloyalty.

It doesn't take Dracula long to suss out the true extent of Johnny's extracurricular activities. Certainly, he's been happy enough to encourage his bride's interest in his own preternatural biology. They are, after all, standing on the shores of a new century: who can imagine what delights would await them in the coming years? What advancements might be made in the name of science?

That natural laws could explain even the most perverse intricacies of vampirism is a reason for excitement—not trepidation.

But Johnny—

Sweet Johnny has wholly betrayed Dracula's trust in enlisting the aid of a mortal woman – _Agatha Van Helsing_ – to expand his studies. Divulge his secrets. Reveal his weaknesses.

 _Dracula's_ weaknesses.

It stings him. Truly it does. Because finding a bride he can tolerate beyond a fleeting fancy and the eventual trip to a locked box is never easy, and he's had every intention of keeping this one around for a while.

Or more than a while.

Damn him, but he's grown oddly fond of his Johnny. His curiosity. His circumspect pride. The sensitive way his brow knits when Dracula says something particularly vexing or cruel. The feel of his hands on Dracula's body. The hitch of his breath when Dracula's fangs break through his skin.

And in the decade since he took him as his own, he's allowed himself to become accustomed to a certain level of devotion. Foolishly, he now knows. He stifles the mental connection he shares with Johnny and follows him to Agatha's flat. Stands in the shadows on that quiet Kensington street and listens as his bride recounts every detail of his time in Transylvania, his turning, the life he lost and the life he regained at Dracula's side. He listens as Johnny offers up his blood – blood of his own blood – for extraction and examination.

While Johnny's tone is never wholly irreverent, or lacking in earnestness, the fact that he should give up their game in such a way infuriates Dracula.

And Dracula's fury is not a force with which to be trifled.

*

He settles into Johnny's skin like a hand in a glove.

This is, of course, an apt description, as he slips through Johnny's limbs and makes swift work of his motor coordination—and so too takes control of his eyes and ears, his mind and blood, every muscle and sinew all the way down to the very smallest elements of him and it's impossible to discern where he ends and Dracula begins.

Johnny is absolutely terrified. Who could blame him? Dracula's presence is near to bursting within Johnny's confines. His consciousness shudders as Dracula hushes him: _Easy, my dear. This will all be over before you know it._

And it is. It's nothing at all to take Agatha Van Helsing into his arms and drink her down, down, down to the point of oblivion. Her blood is rich—and strangely familiar. But he doesn't dwell on this, for her mind is richer still, with myriad stores of memory and information, deftly organized calculations and suppositions, halls of thought: a veritable shrine of learning.

Impressive... for a mortal.

For good measure, he pockets her diary. And then he takes her home with him.

*

"Count Dracula, I presume," is the first thing Agatha says upon waking. She shoots him an angry, if justifiably bleary, scowl. It's been the better part of a week since he first tucked her into bed. The substantial loss of blood had left her weakened, feverish, fraught with bouts of delirium and nightmares which had her moaning, crying out and thrashing against the sheets.

But this had also given Dracula time to recover from his own ordeal. He'd spared Johnny, but exiting a body is a rather more demanding process than entering it. He was left weakened and weary, and gorged himself on nearly third of his bottle reserves in order to properly recover. After that, he'd washed and dressed—and waited.

And now: "I suppose my reputation must precede me."

"And what a reputation it is. Most of us can only claim a handful of years. Decades, perhaps. But you?" Agatha pauses. "For a multi-centenarian, you look remarkably fresh."

"I wish I could say the same for you, Agatha Van Helsing."

"How long have I..."

"Long enough."

"And I suppose you've just been sitting there watching me sleep?"

Dracula smiles. "I couldn't have you slipping away on me. Not when there's so much for us to discuss." He runs his fingers over the large leather volume laid open in his lap. Her diary. Galvanized by the refresher in Dutch that drinking from her afforded him, he's already read it from cover to cover three times.

And damned if it isn't interesting stuff.

Agatha arches a brow, but before she can reply, her body convulses and she's overcome by a fit of coughing. Her long frame tucks in on itself. Her skin is sallow. Her chestnut hair has lost its luster, and her eyes are red-rimmed, cloudy. She's so fragile. Putrid and wan.

But this is not what drives him to take pity on her. Suffering is all but immaterial. He's laid ruin to thousands of mortals and witnessed the fall of tens of thousands more.

No. It is a single truth, unintentionally revealed in her blood and plainly confirmed in her writings: the apple has already been eaten. The angel's sword is unsheathed.

Agatha has been experimenting on herself.

She's been drinking Johnny's blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: this chapter (and the next three) take place in the same time frame as the final chapter of [Forests of the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795423), where Dracula has both Agatha and Johnathan in captivity at Carfax Abbey for several months.

From the very beginning, Carfax Abbey wasn't just a residence. It was home.

Dracula made certain demands when he first inquired about obtaining an estate in England. These were namely related to the property's proximity to London, in addition to its size, amenities, and condition—for though he assured Mr. Hawkins and his fellow solicitors that he would be bringing his own servants from Transylvania, there were of course no such souls.

He also noted that the acreage should include adjacent woodlands, all the better to maintain a host of beastly minions close at hand.

Fortunately for Mr. Hawkins, such a property not only existed, but was newly available for purchase. When Johnny delivered the papers for Carfax, Dracula was at once taken with the place—particularly the old growth forest which surrounded it. And upon seeing it in person, he was delighted to discover a true wildness about it, its length and breadth set like an uncut emerald within the crown of that well-tamed land.

There were no clear trails, though before long Dracula could navigate even the thickest enclaves. He felt a strange kindship to the brambles and groves where the trees were several centuries old, and often found himself idling beneath the huge, gnarled boughs which seemed to effortlessly graze the high canopy of stars.

Would it were he could have known he'd come to use these woods for yet another purpose. Beneath the pale moonlight, he has presently gathered handfuls of fat hen, chickweed, and ground elder, wild onions and chanterelle mushrooms, and a young hare which he flays and dresses before stuffing the lot into a burlap sack.

The kitchen at Carfax is minimally appointed. Why indeed would a vampire and his bride need cookery? But there's a sturdy kettle he half-fills with water and sets to boil on the stove, and a sharp knife he uses to trim the vegetables and meat.

He takes his time. It's been years since he had the pleasure of preparing a meal for an esteemed guest, but he hasn't lost the knack, and the resulting stew – based on a recipe he's retained from a Wallachian peasant woman for over two hundred years – is wonderfully thick, rich and aromatic. He ladles out a heaping bowlful and carries it, along with two full wine glasses, on a tray to Agatha's room. Then he lights the lamp and sits down by her side.

She blinks up at him drowsily. "Damn," she says. "I was having the most wonderful dream. I'd managed to get a stake in your heart and you were flopping about on the floor, soaked in your own blood, your mouth gaping open and closed like a dying fish."

"Haven't you heard the idiom about biting the hand that feeds you?" Dracula chides in response. "Or aren't you hungry?"

Agatha gives the meal a longing look before glaring up at him, all skepticism. "Is it poisoned?"

Dracula can't help but laugh. "My dear lady," he says, "believe me when I say that if I wanted to kill you, I would employ a far more _direct_ method."

For a minute more, she resists. Then she takes up the spoon and samples the stew, followed by sip of claret. Dracula spots the relieved smile on her lips before she says, "My compliments to the chef."

"I'm sure he will be pleased to hear you appreciate his handiwork."

Agatha rolls her eyes. "Come, Count. There is no need for modesty—nor charade. In my rare instances of wakefulness these last several days, I happened to note that it was you, and not a servant, who so graciously changed my soiled bedsheets. Why, Mr. Harker has assured me that you and he are quite alone in this place." And then, perhaps once again realizing her circumstances: "Where _is_ Jonathan?"

"Destroyed," Dracula says, shortly. He takes a drink of blood from his own glass and studies Agatha's face for any trace of empathy... or horror.

And lo, there it is. She shudders. Then she drops her spoon into the bowl and sets it back on the table, pointedly looking away from him. "Why all this posturing? Why feed me? Why keep me alive?"

"You're fond of science, are you not? Well, so am I. Consider it an experiment."

"I'm afraid you've chosen a mediocre subject."

"Indeed? Now it's you who must forgo modesty, Ms. Van Helsing. In all my many years, you are the only mortal I've encountered who has ingested vampiric blood without coercion. Tell me why. What's your endgame?"

Even now, Dracula can see that it has begun: Johnny's blood – combined with his bite – is changing her into something more than human. Something monstrous. She's sickly, yes, but there's a new, uncanny brightness in her eyes. Fangs and claws. Temperament. Thirst... These will manifest later. But come hell or high water—or death everlasting, she'll be a vampire yet.

And how long will it take? Johnny is so new. His blood is nothing compared to Dracula's. Without further dosage, Agatha could very well spend _months_ dying.

Just as without dosage, Johnny will spend months degrading into madness.

Dracula is eager to observe these progressions, to catalogue them in great detail. And to add a variable: isolation. How amusing it is to allow each to think the other dead!

Agatha finally meets his eye—and yet her reply is another deflection. "Jonathan wasn't an anomaly, then. You claim all of your undead slaves by force."

"Brides," Dracula corrects. And then: "Does that shock you?"

"You're despicable, Count. A rank beast yanked from some penny novel. Why should anything you do shock me?"

"Ah." Dracula smiles serenely. "A delightful challenge. But no way to for us begin. We're already well acquainted, are we not? I've had your blood, Ms. Van Helsing—or perhaps you will allow me to call you by your given name? Yes? I have tasted you, _Agatha_ , and know you to your marrow. And seeing as Johnny made such a habit of telling tales out of school, you know something of me. It is almost as though we are old friends."

Agatha narrows her eyes at him. Then she downs her wine in one gulp and begins to silently and efficiently devour the stew, one bite after the next until she's scraping up the last of the broth with the tip of her spoon.

So keen. So willful.

Dracula's hackles raise in a frisson of pleasure at the sight. "Good," he says. "You'll want to keep up your strength if you're to endure what's coming."

"And what is that?"

"The mountaintop."

*

By the time Johnny came along, Dracula had all but given up hope that he'd ever take a bride who could be a true companion to him.

And it wasn't for lack of trying. Oh, no. In his centuries of existence, he's created – and eventually destroyed – more brides than he cares to count.

Simply put, immortality is _hard_. Most people just aren't meant for it. Even the good brides, the ones who can still speak with clarity if not intelligence, become deranged, their fragile minds unable to cope with the unrelenting march of time for more than a decade or two. And the bad ones—Well. The ones who really irritate him rarely last a fortnight.

Until Johnny, it was his practice to keep as many as three at a time. Play them off each other. Feed them odd combinations of blood, plentifully or sparingly. Hypothesize which was fittest for survival and then put said hypothesis to the test.

These things are all very scientific. There are rules to be followed. Proprieties.

After all, it's not like he's some kind of bloody mindless _monster_.

Or not only. To wit, when Johnny came thrashing back to consciousness, Dracula knew at once that he was special. It's the reason he's granted Johnny something he never offered any of his previous brides: autonomy. He gives Johnny the freedom to spend his time as he wishes. To feed his mind as well as his body.

To slake his hunger and demand ever more.

And oh, Dracula does _enjoy_ stoking Johnny's lust.

The lad is so like Dracula himself. Which is why, even after his most egregious infidelity, even after Dracula wears him like a finely cut suit in order to obtain Agatha Van Helsing, Dracula doesn't simply tear him to shreds upon exiting his body.

It's why Dracula doesn't finish him off now, as his delirious shouts ricochet off the walls, rousing Dracula from sleep even before the sun has finished setting.

"Johnny, Johnny," he mutters wearily, pushing back his coffin lid and sliding out into the cool, still air of the crypt. "Stupid, beautiful Johnny. You do realize you brought this upon yourself."

He's lately made a habit of checking in on his bride before going about his evening. The worse Johnny is looking, the better Dracula feels.

Tonight, he's seated cross-legged at the far side of the cell, his arms drooped at his sides and his palms splayed open and upward. His shirt hangs askew, exposing his pale chest with its smattering of fine, ginger hair, and the increasingly bony shape of his ribcage, clavicle, and throat

He doesn't look up when Dracula steps over the threshold. Doesn't say a word, though this at least is better than the instances when he won't quiet his screams: Dracula does so hate struggling to get a word in edgewise.

"Hello, Johnny. And how are we feeling today?"

Silence.

But then again, perhaps being ignored is worse. It's hard to believe it's only been a couple of weeks since Dracula closed the door on Johnny. Since they fed on Agatha. Though of course having to carry Dracula's spirit, and then be wrung free of it, did rather knock the stuffing out of one.

Dracula will have to spur him into lucidity—they both do love a good confrontation.

He yanks on their telepathic connection, the everlasting tether between their minds, before continuing, "Johnny, I wish you could see this from _my_ perspective. You betrayed my trust in every possible way. What would you have had me do? Let you go free?"

Johnny jolts awake.

"No," he says, his speech rough with disuse. "I don't expect anything from you, save cruelty. I never have." And then, softly: "You—you once told me... You can't help but _break_ your toys apart to see how they work."

Dracula kneels beside him. With as much gentleness as he's able, he touches Johnny's brow, his cheek and jaw. Waxy, he notes; cold. Then he thumbs back Johnny's lip to expose his fangs – still fully extended – and greenish tongue.

"Hungry, Johnny?"

Johnny's face contorts in a mocking grin. "No."

"Mm." Dracula traces down Johnny's arm and lifts his hand. His fingertips are scabbed, bruised, and several of his claws have been gnawed down to the quick.

No, not gnawed. Dracula frowns down at the grime knit into Johnny's half-healed wounds. Then he notices the bloody splotches on the cell's floor: the walls and ground are fashioned of the same rough fieldstone, but several centuries' worth of dirt has been crushed down into the lower grouting, and Johnny has painstakingly worked to collect it. His jacket is balled up in a corner like a makeshift pillow—and there's a scant pile of earth tucked beneath it.

Despite himself, Dracula shivers.

Oh, Johnny.

"My head is pounding," Johnny says. "My head is _always_ pounding."

"I'm sorry, Johnny."

Johnny shoots him a glare. "Are you?"

Dracula smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He moves back towards the door, and in an instant, Johnny is upon him. He's launched himself forward—not to flee, but to grapple at his maker. To thrash at his throat.

Dracula shakes him off with ease before returning the favor: it's no trouble at all to hoist him against the wall, hold his thumb over Johnny's jugular, and deftly nick the tender, sallow flesh. Then he leans in to lap up a sample of blood.

"Interesting," he muses. "More astringent than usual. Like concentrated metal."

Johnny groans, his limbs going slack. " _Please_."

"Please what?"

"Kill me," Johnny says, "and be done with it."

"Johnny, Johnny. You know I can't do that." Dracula presses his mouth against Johnny's in a chaste kiss. Then he sets his bride back down to the floor, where he promptly collapses, the fight snuffed out of him. Dracula cards a hand through his – noticeably thinning – hair. Then he steps from the room. "Besides... What a tremendous gift it is to _live_."


	4. Chapter 4

"You must be invited into an abode before gaining entrance. You fear the cross. You take your daily rest in a box of Transylvanian earth. You possess a number of rather interesting physical abilities, but exerting them greatly increases your desire to feed," Agatha recites dryly, not looking up from her notes. "Is there anything I've missed? Oh. Oh, yes. You claim that you cannot, for fear of utter annihilation, set foot in the direct sunlight, and while you do have limited mobility during the day, your powers are largely rendered inert. Correct?"

Not for the first time, Dracula regrets agreeing to return Agatha's diary to her. "As you will soon be able to confirm," he says, archly, "when you become a vampire yourself."

"You seem convinced of that, and yet you've also told me how difficult it was to create even one halfway decent progeny—" 

"Tread carefully, my lady, lest you overstep your bounds."

Agatha tilts her head. "So you did care for him." And then, when Dracula meets her comment with icy silence: "As of course you should have. I can scarcely imagine how _lonely_ you must have been. You spent so many decades with naught but yourself and a couple of maniacal _brides_ —" this she says with exaggerated disdain, "—for company. Lurking, brooding, haunting your ancestral castle like some lowly poltergeist. Burrowing so deeply into your own ways that even the idlest superstitions surrounding you took on permanence. Although you were once only a man – oh, lest I offend: a _prince_ – you became a beast—"

"Oh, my dear. Why stoop to such unoriginality?" Dracula drawls. "You know I'm much more than a beast."

"Is that so? And yet you can no more control your bloodlust than a wild dog."

"Perhaps it's that I don't _wish_ to control it."

"So you are then content to be a monster. Locked away in a dungeon of your own making, you now find yourself the subject of legend, the unhappy king of a species loathed the world over..."

"And what is your point?"

"My _point_ is that by the time Mr. Harker came along, you must have been positively ravenous for a bit of civilized conversation."

"Johnny, a conversationalist?" Dracula deflects, unwilling to admit just how much Agatha's assumption rings true. He tugs on his waistcoat and settles back in his chair a bit. "That's overly generous."

"Ah. For someone who's been kicking around as long as you have, you're a remarkably poor liar."

"Who needs lies when honesty is so interesting?"

This coaxes a grin across Agatha's features. "Quite right, Count," she says. She taps her pen on her diary, which is splayed across her coverlet-clad lap. There are a couple of pillows stuffed behind her back to prop her up against the headboard. Her supper sits on a tray beside her, all but untouched. She's scarcely left her bed in two days. And she's looking sicklier than ever: the paper-thin skin beneath her eyes is a lurid shade of purple, and her long, thin hands are splotchy and red. But her gaze is sharp. Close.

"It is, of course, my ultimate intent to destroy you, but it's taking me longer than expected to fashion a chair leg into a wooden stake," she says. "I suppose we've reached something of an impasse."

Dracula muses on this for a moment. Then he arches a brow. "You play chess, do you not?"

And Agatha does. Dracula retrieves his favorite set from his study and places it on a narrow table at her bedside.

"Black or white?" she asks once he's arranged the pieces.

Dracula bows his head slightly. "Lady's choice."

Agatha considers this for a moment before adjusting the board so that the black side faces her. "The first move is yours, Count, as long as you allow me to dictate our wager."

Ah. The woman continues to fascinate. But how can her confidence remain unchecked? Even in these dire circumstances, with the last dregs of her mortality slipping away from her and nary a friend to be had, she's still ready to look the Devil in the eye. 

Yet hour by hour, Johnny's bite takes its toll. Agatha's waking hours have all but aligned with Dracula's own, and this is not for the sake of his company, or not only: within her decay comes her transformation. She'll soon be _his_.

And if he's wrong—Well. He hasn't forgotten how to construct a wooden crate.

So why not? What danger could there be in playing along? Dracula pulls up a chair and folds his hands on his lap. "As you wish."

"If I win, I would like you to return my scientific instruments to me. My microscope. My gas burner. My centrifuge and phials."

"I'm afraid your home in Kensington has been vacated, your belongings discarded. I happened by there not three days ago and noticed that a beautiful young couple has lately taken up residence," says Dracula, truthfully. "But I can give you some of Johnny's instruments. I assure you they're of the finest make."

Agatha huffs out a groan. "Do you realize how difficult it was to build a laboratory that met my exact specifications?" she asks. And then: "Fine. But I also demand that you allow me to resume my work here, tonight, in this room."

"Why the hurry?"

"You do realize I am dying, Count."

Her imperious tone sets a tremor skirting up Dracula's spine; it's all he can do to feign offense. "Such a wicked tongue. Such _gall_. No wonder they kicked you out of that convent."

"That was in fact due to my involvement in an explosion which fractured the building's central foundation... An accident I gladly confessed to—and then I left of my own volition. As a rule, my wicked tongue, as you call it, has rescued me from quite a few precarious situations."

"But clearly not _every_ precarious situation. And if I win?"

"You won't," Agatha says, smiling again, "but if you do, the game itself will be reward enough. So, Count. Do we have an accord?"

Dracula doesn't reply. But he sets his hand on one of his knights, lifts it up, and makes the first move.

*

Agatha is proud to know all the classic openings.

And yet her play is more advanced than that which might be simply gleaned from a player's manual. More instinctual, canny and bold, so that she has Dracula on the run long before she deploys her remaining rook to strike the final blow.

It's only luck. Or perhaps Dracula, recognizing Agatha's exhaustion, has gone easy on her. But he's loath to admit even to himself that this acquiescence – the very effortlessness of his defeat – excites him in a way he hardly thought possible.

So too, Agatha lets her guard down, smiling and running her tongue over her cracked lips. For a moment, it's easy to parse the elegance from her ruin.

Dracula pockets her list and goes to collect the items from the potting shed Johnny long ago claimed as his laboratory. Only yesterday, when Dracula paid Johnny his regular visit, the younger vampire asked after the condition of the place. Dracula glibly assured him that he'd gutted it, but in truth he hadn't set foot inside for some months now.

Now he looks about with a grimace. The air is damp, heavy and acerbic, and a fine layer of dust coats every surface. And yet it's just as Johnny left it. There's even a record still set on the gramophone, and a specimen beneath the microscope: a sample of what is very likely Johnny's own – now ashen, lifeless – blood.

The most delicate instruments do appear tarnished—but upon further inspection are operational. Johnny always does take such good care of his things.

His notebook sits on the workbench.

With a scant glance at its contents, Dracula pushes it closed and tucks it into his coat.

*

The next time Agatha wins a match, another couple of weeks' worth of nights stretches out behind them. Agatha has taken to spending most of her time hunched over her instrument-crowded desk—her ink stained fingers dance here and there, from flask to tincture to pen.

Dracula is intrigued by her dedication, however futile it may be. He often joins her in her room, distractedly paging through a book while asking occasional questions and taking note of the various affectations of her concentration. Tonight, her brow is furrowed, and the pink tip of her tongue sticks out between her lips as she removes a phial's worth of blood from her own vein. Dracula swallows, his nostrils flaring as he catches the scent, and forces himself to look away.

"It's hard for you, isn't it?" Agatha sets a ruby droplet onto a slide. Then she adds a second drop of a clear, vicious liquid atop it.

"What?"

"Maintaining the delusion that you're anything but a servant to your own appetite."

"Come, Agatha. Are humans really any different? Are _you_? A woman who craves knowledge above all else—and who's brazenly sacrificed herself in its pursuit."

Agatha frowns before shifting her gaze over her microscope's lens. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," Dracula returns. "I've read the articles you published. Johnny went to immense trouble and expense to track them down. Most metaphysical periodicals are, after all, not printed in great quantity. And likewise, aren't of the most wholesome reputation, wouldn't you agree?"

"Their readership is... atypical," Agatha admits, "but not necessarily undiscerning."

"Hobbyists, lunatics, charlatans—"

"And at least one vampire."

"Not anymore," says Dracula. "Yet here you are, dying, and still you won't quit. And so I cannot help but ask you: for whom do you do it? Or perhaps you only mean to satisfy yourself, and we are not so very dissimilar after all."

At last Agatha looks up, her features creased in a scowl. "It makes me ill that you suggest such a thing, Count. I'm nothing like you, possessed of a brilliant mind which you willfully squander. You, who has had _centuries_ to acquire knowledge – to refine it into something that might benefit the world – but instead desire only destruction."

Dracula shakes his head. "I would think, as a former nun, you'd be used to that sort of thing. Or were you one of the ones who cherrypicked from the New Testament?"

Agatha's silence is answer enough. She returns to her notes, but she's distracted, and moreover, bone tired. After a while longer, she sighs and sets her pen down, closing her diary. Then Dracula helps her back to bed and settles her beneath the eiderdown.

"How long?" she asks him.

Dracula gives her a sidelong glance. "Until what? The break of day? The solstice?" And then, in a singsong voice: "Armageddon?"

Agatha puffs out a breath. "Do not be coy. It doesn't suit you."

"All right," he says, drawing up the table and chessboard, and then resetting their game. "I'll tell you this: quite often, death is not exact. Some people have it within them to go on for quite a long time, while others simply don't. My castle crypt was full of those who were plainly of the first sort. But oh, one notices patterns. Pallor and physique are greatly impacted by sustained... contact with a vampire. Johnny only took you once—"

"As I understand it, it was none other than _you_ who drained me to the point of death, Count Dracula."

"...Yes. Little did I know you'd been supping on Johnny's blood, eh?" Dracula smiles toothily and touches the top of a pawn before once again opening with his knight. Then he meets Agatha's eye. "A month. Maybe more. But probably not two."

She swallows, perhaps a little shakily, and moves in counterpoint. But when her queen eventually puts him in checkmate, the tell of her concentration – pursed lips set in a grim smile – precedes her next demand: "A phial of blood. _Your_ blood."

*

It isn't that Dracula _needs_ to feed often. Or not especially. His vampiric body is strong, steady, and old enough to become reinvigorated for long stretches of time with only minimal introduction of fresh blood. Hence his total restoration upon imbibing the life essence of one Jonathan Harker, solicitor and esteemed law clerk, an Englishman in Transylvania: out of place, out of element, and out of luck.

No. It's that he _wants_ to feed often.

Because Agatha is right. He simply isn't equipped to resist temptation.

It's how he's always been, even in the early days following his transformation when he was still presumed mortal, a prince and warlord of Wallachia, scourge of any who would attempt to overtake his beloved homeland. But back then, he was much less picky about his eating habits, and contented himself in ripping out the throats of his rivals. For more than one hundred years, he supped on common thugs, miscreants, militants, and soldiers of fortune, and so too presented himself as an utterly vicious and remorseless creature.

But blood isn't just life, he eventually realized. It's _lives_.

He found that if he drank from men of cunning, women of intelligence, _people_ of beauty, he might likewise render himself as such.

It's why London holds such promise. The city is home to so many delightful people: teeming millions gavotting about him like the most bountiful banquet ever presented in the history of the world. The first time he set foot in Piccadilly Circus, the thrill of it – the sight and sound and _smell_ of humanity – set him reeling, nearly bowled him over, until Johnny took him by the arm and guided him into the dim quiet of a side street pub.

So too, Johnny was shaken, his eyes gone red behind his dark glasses, but he was at least used to navigating through that very same crowd. Dracula, momentarily touched with fondness for his bride, took his hand in his own and squeezed it before stepping back out into the night—

Into a library in which every volume might at once be splayed open for his eventual consumption. His limitless hunger for information—and despite Agatha's naive forbearance, not for any greater good than feeding his own beast...and cultivating a detailed appreciation for the modern world.

And so intellectuals teach him science, philosophy, and rhetoric.

Tradesmen teach him how things operate as they do, and why.

Politicians teach him not merely the ins and outs of contemporary governance, but how to rule.

Criminals teach him how to get away with it all.

And everyone else—Well. They teach him how to enjoy it.

*

There's a farm that stretches out several miles to the east of Carfax Abbey, a wide, lush expanse of land, dells and a small, crooked creek, green pastures that at any given moment are studded by several hundred sheep, and a single farmer presiding over all. Dracula has observed the fellow in his travels to and from the city, slowing his Albion motorcar to a crawl in order to get a better look. He's even occasionally caught him dozing beneath the wide oak tree at the top of the hill—and this is where he finds him tonight.

Dracula's body tingles all over as he takes the form of a mist to quickly traverse the acreage, and then once again, he's whole. His cape swirls about him as he manifests at the man's side.

The moon looms overhead, waxing but still wide and bright.

And then: "Good evening."

The man startles awake, nearly tipping over himself, gasping, choking, for in truth he's a little drunk. The scent of whisky hangs about him like a shroud, and beneath that, blood: in his fright, he's managed to scratch his wrist on the root of the tree. His heart thrums rapidly in his chest. "Wha—What are you doing here?" he sputters. He's older than Dracula first supposed, perhaps seventy or more. And yet he's still strong, a lifetime spent out of doors having served his physique well.

Dracula smiles down at him, in truth enjoying his discomfort. But he speaks gently, slowly. "Do you know Carfax Abbey?"

"Ramshackle place. It's sat derelict for years."

"Decades. But I am its new master, and I've lately been making the rounds, as one might say. I should hate to be the sort of man who knows nothing of his neighbors." He holds out his hand. "I am Count Dracula... And you, sir?"

The man eyes Dracula warily before getting to his feet. "Tom Boddington," he says, and after a long moment more, takes Dracula's hand—and then recoils, clutching himself. "Blimey, you're as cold as stone!"

Dracula's smile widens.

"That's it, then. You're Death, aren't you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Tell me—" Tom lets out a juddering little laugh that's really more like a cry. "Will it hurt?"

"Only a little," says Dracula, before falling upon him, encircling him with his arms and sinking his fangs into his throat. Then he drags him into a dream—

_...The farm once belonged to his grandmother. He feels the scratch of the new wool scarf she knitted him wrap about his neck, so warm and so..._

_...tight. The cravat was a damned mistake, but Winnifred insisted, and she's absolutely gorgeous in her gown and crown of dahlias. He'd never deny her anything. Not even the air from his..._

_...lungs. They said it was her lungs giving out. He'd_ seen _folks with consumption before. He should have..._

_...known—_

He is known.

The width and breadth of him, the years which eventually became decades, the loss and life and love – so much _love_ – for his country, for his king, for his poor dead wife and the children they so too had to bury, for every last one of his damned sheep – all belong to Dracula now. He shivers, licking his lips and letting the body of the man who was Tom Boddington drop down into the grass.

With a single thought, he commands the sheep to return to their paddock.

And then he goes home.

*

Johnny is huddled up, asleep, in the corner of his cell. For a long moment, Dracula stares down at him, taking in the hunch of his shoulders; the sallow cast of his flesh; the very shape of his bones. He takes in his pain and sorrow, and for a moment, knowing that he alone has the power to end Johnny's suffering, feels a pang of regret.

But then again, no: Johnny has not yet learned his lesson.

And then again: Johnny will be whole once more in time.

Dracula unclasps his cape and swings it over his shoulder before stretching it out on the floor. The stone is hard – cold, even through the plush fabric – but it's easy enough to sidle up until his chest is pressed against Johnny's back and his hips are aligned against Johnny's rear. Then he sets his hand on Johnny's hip and dips his nose to his nape, breathing deeply of him. Grime and salt and _blood_.

Johnny stirs, sighing and pushing backward slightly. "I was dreaming of the castle," he whispers. "I dreamt I made it out... with Agatha Van Helsing. She helped me escape."

"Oh?" Dracula hums. "That sounds more like a nightmare to me."

Johnny's hand slides up to capture Dracula's. He squeezes it tightly before dragging it over his chest, not letting go as he continues, "I hate you. I _hate_ you." And then: "You robbed me of everything good in my life."

"In exchange for _eternal_ life, Johnny. That's something, isn't it?" And perhaps it's only that Tom Boddington's sentimental old essence is still working its way through his system, but he turns Johnny round and kisses him squarely on the mouth.

Johnny arches into him, nipping at his lips just enough to draw a couple beads of blood. Dracula chuckles as Johnny licks them off, but holds him back before he can take any more. Then he sits up and reaches into his pocket for a syringe. "Now it's your turn, my dear, if you don't mind."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Never you mind."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Only of whether you'd like me to take it by force."

Johnny glances down and then up again before finally extending his arm. "Do it, then."

*

Later, when Dracula goes to hand over the phial of Johnny's decrepit blood – for which he relishes the idea of allowing Agatha to examine unbeknownst – as well as one containing his own, fresh and newly fortified – he finds Agatha still abed, bleary and bedraggled.

"Rise and shine," he chirps. "And how is my favorite professor this evening?"

Agatha blinks, glancing at him askance. "I was dreaming of Jonathan Harker," she says. "The details are... obscured. But his presence was also remarkably _vivid_." Now she looks him in the eye. "We fled this place. Together."

Dracula can't help but laugh. Oh, but this _is_ exciting.


	5. Chapter 5

"Where did you obtain this sample?" Agatha blinks down the lens of her microscope. "It's clearly vampiric. And yet even the leucocytes are in the most advanced state of degradation I've yet observed. Compared to yours—" here she points to a slide they had already spent a good long while admiring, "—it's frail, sickly. Almost _starved_."

Dracula smiles, enjoying her disquietude. When this is all over, what a pleasure it will be to reveal that it was none other than Johnny's blood that had so mystified her. Surely, she – and Johnny too, in a newfound display of obedience – will see the humor in it. But for now: "You've a hypothesis."

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Based on my own examination of several undead specimens in varied states of decay, and what you've told me of the creatures you kept locked away in your castle crypt... Those from whom you'd fed, murdered, drained to the last, and yet still retained some of their baser instincts. The will to survive, to seek freedom..." she trails off, her gaze skirting up to meet Dracula's.

"To kill," he adds, "or to perish, whichever comes more easily. Some have called them the unquiet dead, though I think the more apt term is 'revenant.'"

"You have a revenant, then. Or more than one. Locked away here in the manor."

"No," says Dracula. "But do feel free to keep guessing. You're bound to hit on it eventually."

Agatha snorts and pushes herself back from the table. "You overestimate my stamina, Count." And her manner is indeed clipped, irritable, but also quite simply exhausted. When Dracula offers a hand to help her up, she takes it. She allows him to half-carry her back to her bed, her head lolling briefly against his shoulder; she allows him to tuck her in, almost tenderly, and pull up a chair to her side.

"Black or white?" he asks. 

"Not tonight."

This comes as little shock. Still, Dracula snuffs out a feeling of—No, not disappointment. Enjoyable as their games have been, aren't they little more than a stage upon which to continue their dialogue? A place where each might offer the other companionship as well as some scrap of truth behind the moves of their chess pieces?

Like a queen strutting down the board, Agatha has a way of disarming him.

But combat is nothing to those who hold all the power. He's _allowed_ himself to be disarmed. And in any event, he can so easily force her to submit to him if he so desires.

And then: "I often find myself attempting to understand your continued drive to exist as you have all these years," she says. "Surely no sane mind could tolerate so much ruin. Is it purely a matter of ego? Human beings must mean to next to nothing to you."

"Ah, but that's not it at all. Human beings – glorious _people_ like you, Agatha – fascinate me. The infinite variety of your minds. The cleverness and creativity and humor—and yes, the violence as well, lest we forget that your kind is responsible for so much more carnage than mine can ever take claim. In each of your brief lives, you do manage to get up to quite a lot." Dracula's mouth stretches into a beatific smile. He continues, wonderingly, "And your deaths too."

"I suppose that's why you've taken such interest in witnessing mine."

"Naturally."

Agatha gives him a canny look. "Do you want to know my real hypothesis?" she asks. "It's an act. You profess to be cavalier—to revel in death. To mock it. But I believe you're terrified. Death is your greatest obsession _because_ it's also your most overwhelming fear."

Dracula tilts his head, nonplussed. "Do you think Christ feared death when his wounds ran dry and his throat was swollen shut from weeping and rescue seemed nothing more than a passing dream?"

"The beast dares to blaspheme?"

"Come, Agatha. Save us both the pretense. Your sisters aren't here to tut you for saying something intelligent."

Agatha drags the tip of her tongue across her cracked lips, eying him carefully. Then she huffs out a breath. "Yes. I think he was afraid to die, though less so for having faith that it would not be permanent," she says. "Perhaps he didn't want to be fixed to that cross. But he knew it was where he needed to be in order to become... a sum greater than his parts."

"God, you mean?" Dracula goads her. For what is a vampire if not a god among men?

"His human form could carry him no further," Agatha asserts. "There was nothing left other than the next step."

There at last is the admission Dracula has been waiting for, prompting him to murmur, "And are you not afraid?"

He reaches towards her, waits a moment for a flinch that doesn't come, and brushes the hair back from her brow. She's positively burning up. And to his surprise, she leans into the cool closeness of his hand.

"Yes," she says, after a time.

It won't be long now.

*

The wonderful thing about experimentation, Dracula has come to realize, is that no matter what the eventual results are, they're just that: _results_. Significant, whether positive or negative. Infinitely variable, indefinitely fascinating.

He waits. He makes note of each variable in the vast repositories of his mindscape. He observes and calculates and tests, here making small adjustments, there making large ones.

And he orders a shipment of earth from Amsterdam.

It is, perhaps, still a premature gesture. While the odds of Agatha becoming a vampire are strong, if there's anything Dracula has ascertained in his long career of making and destroying brides, there are very few definites.

But she's given him enough entertainment of late that he doesn't mind the investment. Should the time it's needed come, he wants to be ready.

Ready in a way that he never had to be with his Transylvanian brides—and that he most assuredly wasn't with Johnny. And yet he hadn't anticipated that Johnny would become quite like himself. That the added ingredient of English earth might have made those early days easier for the lad is worth an examination all its own.

As is Johnny and Agatha's burgeoning mental connection. Dracula has discerned via careful questioning that this hasn't yet gone beyond each appearing in the other's dreams, and perhaps a general feeling of closeness. They can't yet speak in mind alone. They haven't _found_ one another.

And yet, a week later—

"Tell me what happened to Jonathan Harker."

Dracula is taken aback by the authoritative tone in Agatha's voice, but plays it off as pique. "Shall I begin with the part where I wore him like a suit of clothes?" he drawls. "Or the part where I _removed_ said suit?"

Agatha shakes her head. "Tell me how he became a vampire."

Ah. This at least is uncharted territory between them, though he knows Johnny already told her, in agonizing detail, his own side of things.

And where to begin? With Johnny's arrival at the castle, ripe and sanguine and deliciously susceptible to any number of Dracula's wiles? Perhaps he could describe the first taste he'd drawn from him, the first night he dragged him into a dream, took the form of that sweetling of a fiancé and proceeded to sate himself in a way he hadn't for nigh on a decade.

How he'd _toyed_ with Johnny. What a delight it was to watch him squirm. What a marvel to see the look on Johnny's face as he tried to justify postdating a set of letters home and thereby put the final nail in the coffin of his own mortal life.

Dracula felt Johnny's gaze on him, his attention focused in desire as well as terror. In awe as well as worry. But still he made no mention of Dracula rummaging through his personal effects; absconding with his clothes; tearing pages from his journal, leaving Johnny to wonder if he was indeed going mad for all the remembrances in his head which did not align with those of his shorthand. Was it an enslavement to his staid English mores, or a dereliction of them?

Dracula meanwhile had no such scruples. He swallowed Jonathan Harker down to the barest dregs of himself and then demanded more—simply more, because nothing else would satisfy.

To which Johnny acquiesced.

Should he tell Agatha all of this? And that it was in fact by utter accident that Dracula thus cemented Johnny's attachment to him, though of course it was what they both had hungered for all along?

Oh, what a wonder to see him claw his way back to consciousness and assume his new place in the great order of things. To claim his place at Dracula's side, however reluctant he was at first to do so.

And Johnny did make such a beautiful bride. Dracula lifted him into his arms and kissed him and nigh on wept when, presented with his first meal, he let instinct take over, falling to his knees and gorging himself on fresh, human blood.

Then, after, reeled back: "He's—he's—"

"Dead," Dracula supplied. He was kneeling at Johnny's side, watching him closely. "We'll have to stake him if we don't want to run the risk that he'll rise."

"Oh _God_." Johnny's whole body shook, and he wrapped his arms about his sides, his knuckles going white as he wrenched his fingers into his shirt as if to keep from being flung apart. "Monstrous. I felt so—but I didn't mean..."

His stammering trailed off when Dracula pulled him to himself; held him to his chest, wanting for once to be gentle with this thing he'd wrought. "You've changed, Johnny, and did what is now in your nature. And by the look of it, you enjoyed yourself immensely."

Of course this was to point out the blood which covered the lower half of Johnny's face – learning to feed with finesse, while pointedly overrated, would come later – as well as the obvious bulge in Johnny's trousers. Tentatively, Dracula pressed the heel of his hand against Johnny's groin. Then, watching Johnny's reaction, he did it again.

Sucking in a breath, Johnny had managed, "What are you doing?"

Dracula smiled. "Do you want me to stop?"

Johnny hesitated. Then he shook his head.

Making quick work of Johnny's flies, Dracula got his hand round his cock and began to stroke him in earnest. He knew it wouldn't take long. Johnny was already so keyed up, aching and arching into his maker's cool grip, his eyes wide, fever-bright but fixed.

The temptation to taste Johnny's newly minted vampiric blood proved too great. Dracula moved closer. Then he nosed back his bride's collar, breathing deeply of him before sinking his fangs into that ever-scarred throat. But Dracula only had time for a couple of shallow sips before Johnny gasped and spilled into his palm. The flavor was rich and ruddy and—

"Simply exquisite," Dracula said, his words ghosting over Johnny's ear.

And will he recount this to Agatha as well? Yes. There is no point in mincing words, or holding back, and in any event, Agatha simply listens to him. Listens and waits for him to finish before replying, "All of that, only to put an inglorious end to him over a minor offence."

Dracula arches a brow. "You consider the betrayal of my love a minor offence?"

"Love?" Agatha almost spits out the word. Where she'd previously sat idle, taking in his words, she's animated. Bedridden, beholden to the confines of her imminently failing mortal shell, but confident. Lit by righteous fury.

She too shall make a beautiful bride.

Then: "You dare to call what you inflicted on Jonathan _love_? He would never have stayed with you willingly, and so you stole his life and spent the next decade withholding information, rationing affection, while keeping him utterly dependent on you. You fed him scraps as much as you did with any of your other supposedly inferior offspring. It's little wonder he went looking for answers – sought _solace_ – elsewhere.

"Of all the self-delusions you have heretofore exhibited, Count, I believe this to be the most egregious. And though I've tried very hard to find myself mistaken in my initial estimations of you, time and again you prove yourself to be nothing more than a beast."

Dracula hears her out. And though her words do indeed give him pause, twisting like a blade in the deepest space within him, he does not tell her so.

Instead, he says, "I appreciate your honest review, my dear lady, but surely it's a little late now to second guess the position in which you've placed yourself," because in that moment, so too an idea has dawned on him. Something of great interest.

He slowly, deliberately, reaches into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his watch: half-ten.

And then he smiles. The night is young.

There's plenty of time to retrieve Johnny from the crypt.

While Dracula had intended to let Agatha die on her own, he's realized that he oughtn't miss the extraordinary chance to simply have Johnny finish the job.


	6. Chapter 6

Dracula has been looking forward to this moment for so long: Johnny, sunken and sallow and _starving_ , a husk of his former self—a frightened, broken man, kneeling at his lord's feet—

Ready for the deliverance that only Dracula can grant.

Ready to serve him.

The agony of the moment is exquisite. And it holds an echo of those leading up to Dracula snapping Johnny's neck on the castle battlement. Johnny had begged for his own life so sweetly, though he lied to himself more readily than he ever did to Dracula. He never did have it in him to stop Dracula from doing anything he set out to do. But now, Johnny understands his place. Now, there's honesty.

Dracula is certain his bride would happily comply with most anything he might ask of him. But Agatha's words, misinformed as they may be, still ring in his head. He decides to be merciful. He will, for once, forgo vanity.

Lightly, as if soothing an animal, Dracula strokes his hand over Johnny's piebald scalp. "I'd love to let you out of here. I really would," he says, quite reasonably. "D'you even realize how much it pains me to see you like this?" It's true enough. Johnny has put himself through such an awful lot of stress. And for his part, he's always carried within him a gentle soul—an attribute Dracula ever delights in needling: how he _longs_ to again see Johnny's soft gaze turn carnal while taking a victim, or in the midst of one of their rows, or when Dracula's fangs, or cock – or both – are buried in him.

And yet he must hear it from Johnny's own mouth. He asks, "How can I be certain you've learned your lesson?"

Johnny's voice is raspy, low. "I...I give you my word. _Please_ , my lord."

Dracula considers him for another long moment before offering, "All right, Johnny." He holds the glass forward and lets his bride have his first taste of human blood in over three months.

And what a dear he is. Clearly, he'd like nothing more than to grapple it from Dracula's grasp and swallow down it in one go. His eyes are veritably glowing with ruby-red hunger. And how his hands shake! But he drinks carefully. Gratefully. Not wanting to waste even a drop. "There's a good boy."

Dracula immediately senses it begin to work its way through Johnny's system, alighting his famished veins, though it will take far more to fully restore him. And so: "Come. I've someone upstairs who's _dying_ to see you."

Johnny looks up at him, puzzled. But he only says, "Yes, my lord."

He's stronger on his feet than Dracula might have expected, though he's still halting, shy; needing to be led. He keeps close when Dracula takes him by the hand and guides him to the doorway, then glances up in silent appeal.

Dracula smiles. "It's all right." He dips his mind into Johnny's as they cross the threshold, and the resulting wave of anguish and uncertainty and white-hot _relief_ washes over him—fills him, makes him tingle with pleasure. Johnny will endure. The desire which wells up in him as they pass the room where their coffins rest will be satisfied. He'll serve Dracula and receive his favor—and reward. Even now, it's tempting to run a bath for him, or at least offer a change of clothes before taking him to Agatha.

But then again, Johnny's hunger is palpable. By the time they're upstairs, standing before the locked door, it sits tightly coiled in his belly, ready to spring.

Then suddenly, Johnny stills. His nostrils flare and his lips draw back in a grimace, and Dracula _feels_ him feel Agatha's warmth; hear her heartbeat; smell her blood. And then: "My God," he whispers. "Agatha. Agatha is here."

"That's right," Dracula says, one hand working the key and the other set firmly on Johnny's shoulder. With a click, the door swings inward, revealing the bedchamber—modest, neat, ordinary but for the array of scientific instruments set across the desk, and for the occupant, so close to death now, eyes closed but not sleeping.

The coverlet is pulled up to her chest, and her hands are lightly folded atop her belly. She appears to be focused on controlling the in-out motion of her own slow, labored breath, and for a moment, the incongruity of this simple, human act makes Dracula pause in his tracks. But then she's turning, opening her eyes which at first refuse to focus. Then she sees them—sees _Johnny_.

"Agatha!" In an instant, he's at her side, almost looming over her before she instinctively recoils from him. And who could blame her? Johnny does look a fright!

But she recovers quickly. "My God, Jonathan! What's happened to you?" she echoes Johnny's shock. Then she turns to Dracula and says in a furious whisper, "What have you _done_ to him?"

Dracula joins Johnny at Agatha's bedside, drawing him back a bit. "Needs must, my dear lady."

"You lied to me. You told me you destroyed him."

"And have I not?" Dracula turns to Johnny. Strokes his cheek admiringly, coaxing a shiver to skirt up Johnny's spine. "All the world's greatest wonders are built on the ruins of those which came before."

Agatha meanwhile takes Johnny's hand in hers, ever compassionate. "Jonathan. Tell me."

Johnny hesitates. Then he turns to Dracula. "My lord?"

"Go ahead," Dracula encourages him. Then, smiling, "But do be quick, Johnny. We haven't got all night."

It's a pleasure to hear Dracula's will spill forth from Johnny's lips. If only Agatha found it half as amusing: by the time Johnny finishes explaining the circumstances of his captivity – and notably, how grateful he is to Dracula for having mercy on him and granting him release – her eyes are glassy with tears.

By God, she's so very _glad_ Johnny is still alive no matter his present state, just as she's furious at Dracula's deception. What a wonder—what truth! But she hasn't the strength to do anything now save accept the fate she's set for herself.

And surely in time she too will come to understand Dracula's methods.

"Johnny," he says, matter-of-factly, "do you know, Agatha tasted your blood long before you ever tasted hers? Why, she's practically kin to us already."

This catches Johnny off-guard. "Agatha, surely it cannot be..." he trails off, searching her face. And then, when she nods: "Why?"

Agatha pointedly turns herself towards Johnny, as if to address him alone. "Need you ask?" Her mouth creases in a grim smile. "In my captivity, I have come to a realization. I've entertained this fascination with vampirism for as long as I can remember. One might say it's been my life's work. But the didactic can only take me so far: I've learned all I can from secondary subjects, from the texts and legends. The only way forward is to find a willing specimen in myself," she says. Then, deadly serious: "But more, Jonathan, I have always been nothing if not a _survivor_."

Excitement tingles deep within Dracula's chest. Oh, what fun the three of them will have together when the matter of Agatha's death is complete. What absolute riots.

To wit: Dracula leans in to whisper in Johnny's ear, "It's time now."

Of course Johnny knows what Dracula means. He's such a clever boy.

While the shock at finding Agatha alive had briefly made him forget his hunger, Dracula's words cause him to shudder; when he looks up again, there's a ring of red around his pupils, and his fangs have extended. Oh, Johnny. With his scabby, pallid skin; with his ground-down claws; with his formerly fine clothing turned to rags; with his wide, salivating maw—he's a veritable picture of the vampiric wraith so artfully and frequently depicted in the very folktales Agatha has spent her life studying.

What a lovely denouement. What fitting irony that this, of all conceivable outcomes, is the form that Agatha's death shall take.

Yet still, it's his Johnny. He asks with such remarkable lucidity that Dracula cannot help but forgive him any slight. "Agatha? Are you certain?"

Agatha nods, says, "Yes," and Johnny is up on the bed, sliding her into his arms and holding her in a gentle but firm grip. Then leans in.

And he bites.

For all his appetite and all his strength, he's surprisingly tender. He holds her as a lover might. His head, bent to her throat, and the low moan he makes as he sups bring to mind nothing else, and Dracula has to stifle a flare of jealousy at the sight. But then again, he's filled with the heat of arousal as Agatha's enraptured expression fixes on him.

And then again, just to observe his best beloved claim another for his own, flesh of Dracula's flesh, is spellbinding.

It's over quickly. There isn't, after all, much left in her. As Johnny pulls away, he runs his tongue over his lips, sighs, and with great care sets her body down on the bed. Then he turns back to Dracula, his eyes downcast. "I—I felt her presence in my mind, and then it was snuffed out—" he stammers, clenching and unclenching his hands, still at war with himself.

But he too must stop fighting.

"Johnny, Johnny, you mustn't fret. Just think how much you'll enjoy having another friend about the place," Dracula purrs, taking his bride in his arms and kissing him soundly—and at long last sampling the glorious flavor of Agatha's blood with his own tongue. His eyes close with the pure pleasure of it. Oh, how he wants _more_ of her. And so too, what she's to _become_.

After a long moment, he offers, "You've done well. If you wish, you may go to the crypt and take your rest now. I know you've missed it."

Johnny shakes his head. Color is gradually returning to his cheeks, and his sores have begun to heal; his eyes are back to their usual bright blue. But it will take another meal or two before he really starts to fill out again. "Thank you, my lord. But... I want to wait for her," he says. And, softly, "How long will it take?"

Dracula considers the cooling corpse which was – and again will be, if all goes according to plan – Agatha Van Helsing. "Not long, I think," he says, though in truth, he doesn't have an answer for Johnny. This also is an experiment which must be seen through to its end.

Without another word, he lifts her from the bed. She's so light in his arms that for a moment something in him wonders if she might simply vanish in a wisp of air. But he holds her securely against his chest and carries her downstairs to the box he's prepared for her—

Sets her atop her bed of richly aromatic native soil; leaves the lid propped open so that the torchlight casts her features in gold, gleaming over her in a ghost of animation.

And settles down to wait. Johnny sits beside him, perfectly still. Anticipatory. Solemn. Unflinching when Dracula takes his hand and gives it a squeeze, though his eyes widen, uncertain at how to react to what even Dracula acknowledges is a rare show of gentleness. But he wants Johnny to enjoy this moment as much as he does.

Then, less than an hour before dawn, Agatha wakes up.

Johnny springs forward to greet her, but Dracula holds him back. "Patience, Johnny," he says, wanting to give Agatha the space she needs to come back to herself. Much like his previous brides, Johnny's awakening had been a violent affair, though its onset had come quicker than most. And Agatha—

Agatha gasps. Gasps and groans and says, in the barest whisper of Dutch, "My God." One hand, then the other, scrabbles at the sides of her coffin before snaking over the rim, giving her enough leverage to pull herself up. She looks about the room owlishly, here at the torch, there at the vaulted ceiling. At Johnny. And then at Dracula.

Dracula laughs out loud, delighted to witness her burgeoning awareness, at once recognizing the determination.

The hunger.

And, thanks be to whatever infernal mechanics to which they all owe their existence—

The intelligence.

Dracula, and Johnny behind him, go to her. Dracula takes her cool hand, lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Welcome, my dear Agatha," he says. "Welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels great to finish this one - I hope you've enjoyed reading it half as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Please stay tuned for more in this 'verse in which Dracula gains a bride... as well as some just deserts :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Iggy Pop.


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